Still Standing
by purple-drake
Summary: COMPLETE ‘When there was nothing left to say he would just stand there… Nothing else would matter then, because for a few seconds he was free.’ Kakashi's just barely coping. Pre-series.


**A/N:** _My first Naruto fanfic, whee!_

_And wow, that sounded so airheaded._

_Anyway. The first Naruto fic I've posted, but not the first I've started writing (it's just the others keep exploding out of control, damn it). Yes, it's a songfic, but the lyrics mark the beginning of each scene, so yes, they are necessary. Don't report me._

_The song is 'Still Standing', by the Rasmus, and I don't own the copyrights, although I do own a copy of the song. If you're got it, you may as well listen to it while you're reading; if you don't have it, then I highly recommend you find a version sometime, this song is love. Lyrics are as accurate as I could make them, and they are in italics.  
_

_And I don't own Naruto either, by the way. Also, there's probably pieces in this story which were inspired by other fanfics, but I don't know their names or authors, so if you see something that looks familiar it's probably because I have far too much time on my hands to be reading fanfiction with.  
_

_M'not happy with some of the scenes in this, but I wasn't sure how else to write them, so yeah, feedback would be nice. I also made an effort not to state the narrator's name (although that's fairly obvious given the character search) so it might get confusing at times… if it's too much so, please tell me, because that wasn't my intention and I'm not sure I made it un-confusing enough (and yes, I am aware that 'un-confusing' isn't a word. It is now.)_

_Warning for language... I'm not sure if it's strong enough to warrant an M-rating (although it is sort-of strong at times, numerous uses of the 'f-word') because the language is probably the worst thing in the story and it doesn't seem like it's bad enough to up the rating (but that could just be me). So yah, just warning you._

* * *

**STILL STANDING**

_I wish you were here tonight with me to see the northern lights_

_I wish you were here tonight with me_

His breath caught as he gazed in awe at the night sky above him, a wash of blues and purples and greens which traced the stars like a veil. For a moment all he could do was perch on his branch, on the cusp of the world which fell away beneath him to the distant crash of waves below.

She would have found it beautiful.

The thought hit like a kunai to his heart and his breath caught again, his throat suddenly tight.

With a shake of his head he pushed it all away. Shinobi didn't have emotions (they kept them inside). Shinobi didn't find scenes of never-ending ocean and cobalt sky reflecting each other's stars to be beautiful (even though it _was_). Shinobi were tools; that was all.

His mind snapped to his mission and he turned his back on the cliff-side mansion and the view both, his hand automatically touching the pouch at his belt which held the scroll he'd stolen before he vanished towards the south.

_I wish I could have you by my side tonight when the sky is burning_

_I wish I could have you by my side_

He sat back against the rough bark of the tree's trunk, making himself breathe evenly until the urge to gasp for air had slowed. He did it through his mouth, but that didn't keep him from smelling the blood that coated his gloves and armour, the sharp scent that penetrated his porcelain mask. Not all of it belonged to his enemies.

It was almost nightfall. He would wait until then before he set off for the village, giving him time to tend to the wound on his thigh and regain his strength. He knew no one would be coming after him.

A stray sunbeam made him look up from dressing his injury, peering through the leaves to see the sun setting over the forest, setting it alight in greens and golds. For a moment he paused, even though he'd never really seen the point in watching dusk fall (except his sensei _had_). He watched until the entire horizon was flushed and burning with orange and purple and pink.

He stoically ignored the glow in the distance which had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with a few fireball jutsu and one explosive tag too many.

_Cos I've been down and I've been crawling_

_Won't back down no more_

His fingers traced the edge of the blade, a tantou he had owned since he had achieved the wrist-strength necessary to hold one. It was scratched, marred, the steel nicked in places, and he idly thought that it would need to be sharpened again or those nicks would turn out to be liabilities (except it wouldn't be used again after he was done with it).

The floor was cold beneath him, the breeze through the window chill against his bare shoulders. His skin prickled, the tantou sketching a line in the air as he directed it towards his stomach (there was irony here, but he didn't know what it was).

He took a breath and pressed the tip of the blade in. He did it slowly, not sure what to expect and perhaps with some morbid thought that he deserved whatever came next.

He had felt pain before, but somehow this was worse; it lanced across his torso, through his pelvis, up into his lungs. He grunted on a huff of air, bowing over the tantou, his teeth gritted and trembling hand pressed to the floor.

The movement made something flash with moonlight in the corner and his head snapped up, wide eyes falling on a glass-paned frame, on an image of four (three) too-familiar faces.

For a few seconds he stared, transfixed, and even though two of the faces were smiling the third was scowling. It was always scowling, but somehow there seemed to be more weight to the expression now than there ever was.

Something wet and warm dripped down the left side of his face and he took a deep, shaken breath, carefully so as not to dislodge the tantou more than he had to.

What was he doing?

His hand tremored slightly as he shifted his grip to pull the blade out with a sharp, indrawn breath, the first two inches coated in his blood. He dropped it to the timber floor with clatter, his fist moving instead to press against the wound in his belly.

Slowly he sank over until his forehead touched the ground almost as if in submission, one hand still out in front of him as though begging for forgiveness (or mercy), his fist clenched against the ball of hot pain in his stomach.

_Can't you stop the lies, falling from the skies_

_Down on me. I'm still standing_

"That's the White Fang's brat, isn't it?"

"Shush. You shouldn't be talking about him like that."

"But it is, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's him. But you can't talk about him like that—they say he's turning into one of the village's greatest weapons."

"What difference does that make? A weapon's only as good as the person who forged it, and everyone knows his father was trash."

"That was a while ago now."

"Doesn't matter. Give it a day or a decade; he'll turn out just the same, just wait and see."

"You know it and I know it, and the elders probably know it too, but as long as he's useful they may as well use him."

"I guess even trash can be good for something."

_Can't you roll the dice, I might be surprised_

_Conscience clear? I'm still standing here_

"You're assigning me a permanent team?"

He wasn't sure he could believe this. Sure, he was an ANBU Captain, but up until now he had done solo missions or been assigned whoever was available or as a replacement for a team's injured leader.

The Hokage nodded, steadying his pipe with one hand so it didn't follow the movement, smoke curling into the air. Sharp eyes peered beneath the brim of the red-and-white conical hat, but although searching, they were unreadable.

"Is that a problem, Hound?" the old man asked gruffly.

He wanted to object (yes, it is), wanted to argue (you can't do this to them), wanted to say _some_thing, but he was ANBU, and ANBU didn't question.

"No, Hokage-sama."

(They were going to die).

_Burns like a thousand stars, though you are light years away_

_Burns like a thousand stars or more_

Gods, it hurt; the pain was a deep and lingering pierce in his chest every time he moved or breathed. He coughed and wiped away the flecks of blood that splattered his chin beneath his porcelain mask, his breath a gurgling rasp as he braced himself against the tree.

He couldn't stop. He didn't think he'd gotten rid of all his pursuers, and he needed to get the scroll back to Konoha. It probably hadn't been such a good idea to leave his team in the village, but hell, two of them were injured and the third deserved a vacation. It had been a rough last mission (he was amazed they were still alive).

He took a slow, sort-of deep breath (deep as he could make it) and sort-of managed not to cough (he choked instead) and gods but he wished that writhing ball of hothothot in his chest would just fucking go _away_.

The thing that really hurt most was that today was the day the Kyuubi had attacked, those years ago, and he wasn't even in the damn village to pay his respects.

He didn't know if he could bear to die on this day. He didn't know if he could face his teammates and sensei if he did.

He coughed again, shoulders shaking and bloodstained armour far too tight around him, and thought that he'd just have to work through the burn and make it back, at least so he could tell them he was sorry one last time before he joined them.

_You're up there, you're always with me_

_Smiling down on me_

His sword flashed and danced, tracing faint white light in the air as he wove and sliced through one enemy and then another, their skin momentarily tinged silver before red took over.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye—his left eye, his scarlet eye (the one that _wasn't_ his)—and pivoted on his heel, steel ringing at he blocked a kunai and then twisted to cut his foe down.

There were too many—they were surrounded, him and his team (who were still alive even after all this time) and the chuunin (except for the grim jounin sensei) they were supposed to be backing up.

No one would blame him if there were Konoha lives lost.

There were only so many he could handle, after all, even though each tiny movement in muscle and skin was his to read.

He caught motion again (because they were just _everywhere_) in time to see an enemy bearing down on one of the occupied chuunin, the one with the bowl-cut hair and bushy eyebrows who he _knew_ he'd seen before, somewhere.

He moved without thinking, even though he couldn't possibly have made it in time, but damnit he _knew_ him and his eye was burning and then he was between them and the enemy nin's blade was still falling.

Steel clashed.

His eye throbbed as it met hers, and he thought that if she tried to push away to perform a jutsu he was sure he was fast enough to break through her guard—and then she _did it_, just like he'd thought it, and he lunged and red flew, and his eye was still aching but it felt almost like a smile as he caught his reflection on her fallen blade to see three tomoe spinning lazily in a circle of crimson.

_Can't you stop the lies, falling from the skies_

_Down on me. I'm still standing_

"Isn't that…?"

"Yeah, that's him. The Copy Ninja, they've started calling him."

"I heard he assassinated half a dozen Earth Country diplomats, and that's why Iwa didn't have representatives at the latest peace talks."

"I heard it was a round dozen."

"They say that he's the perfect shinobi. Never failed a mission."

"And here I failed my last B-rank…"

"I heard he already had a nickname before people started calling him the Copy-nin because of the Sharingan."

"What was it?"

"Shinigami."

_Can't you roll the dice, I might be surprised_

_Conscience clear? I'm still standing here_

"Yosh."

He looked up at the out-thrust thumb and the face behind it set in an expression or either determination or constipation, he wasn't sure. For a moment he stared, debating whether or not to say something, and as the silence grew longer and more awkward finally just looked away.

"Did you want something?" he asked, voice monotone, eye even more droopy than usual (it was better than letting people see the hollowness inside).

"You saved my life," the chuunin announced, as if it was something to be proud of, and maybe it was but fuck if he still wasn't wondering where the hell he'd seen that bowl-cut before, and that's what people who knew each other did, right? Saved each other?

Except he _didn't_ know him, he'd just seen him before, and besides anyone who became friends with him tended to die. He had decided that was why his team hadn't died yet, because they weren't his friends, just his team (he ignored the fact that Bird had been damned close because of that fucking poison and still sounded close every time he opened his mouth and coughed instead of speaking).

And he had a feeling that this chuunin didn't want to just be teammates, because the man was a _chuunin_ and he was _ANBU_ and they just didn't mix unless the chuunin needed their asses to be rescued or were stupid enough to approach ANBU _Captains_ and strike up a non mission-related conversation with them.

"I know who you are."

So does all of Konoha, he felt like telling him, because his secret ANBU identity had to be the least secret ANBU identity in the whole village and you didn't need to be a shinobi to have heard the name of the Copy Ninja. "Do you."

The chuunin's voice dropped to something that was almost a whisper, razor-sharp with lingering grief and deep understanding and absolutely no accusation whatsoever. "You were Obito-kun's teammate."

_It's something sacred, something so beautiful_

_Something quiet to ease my mind_

He crouched in front of the engraved stone, shoulders slouched and elbows on his knees, but he still didn't manage to grasp the air of nonchalance he had been attempting to achieve for the past months. He didn't think he was capable of it, to be honest, so entrenched was he in S-ranks and infiltrations and assassinations, so red were his hands.

Still he tried. It didn't matter so much here, but it was an illusion best maintained elsewhere. It was easier that they saw something lazy than what was really there, and he was getting better at it the more he practiced.

It was almost a relief when he came to visit them, a relief that he could let down all his walls for once. Even on missions there were walls, layers upon layers of impenetrable hide in the form of masks and armour and emotionlessness and sheer killer intent.

Here there wasn't anything.

Here there was just him and them and nothing else, and he had nothing to hide, because they already knew it all. He'd told them often enough that he didn't need to speak it anymore, even though he still did because it felt good to get it out.

He'd tell them he was sorry (the first thing he always told them) and then he'd tell them about who had died recently who he (they) knew. Then he'd tell them about his missions, and ask them wistfully that if they happened to see one of his targets if they could possibly tell them, too, that he was sorry, although he never expected forgiveness from any of them.

And then when there was nothing left to say (because he'd said it all) he would just stand there, sometimes with his head bowed and sometimes with it tilted back to watch the sky. Nothing else would matter then, because for a few seconds (minutes, hours) he was free and not on a mission or bathed in red or ordering (screaming, pleading) for one of his teammates not to die (and they still hadn't!).

But sometimes if he was tense and words weren't enough, and he felt that if he couldn't hit (kill) something then he would just shatter—on those days there was often a troublesome chuunin with a bowl-cut and bushy eyebrows who had taken to wearing green spandex and bouncing around spouting off about how he was filled with the Flames of Youth and telling him they were Eternal Rivals.

And although that wasn't particularly quiet, it was somehow calming (annoying as hell) and he knew that his bastard of a former teammate had somehow planned this from beyond the grave and was laughing his ass off about it. And he would tell him that, and that he knew what he was planning and it wouldn't work godsdamnit.

Then, right before he went to pound on the chuunin's ass if he didn't shut the fuck up (because they weren't rivals, damn it all, let alone _friends_), he could swear he heard laughter in the breeze.

_When the pressure's taking me over and over_

He flew forward, fist lashing out to catch his opponent in the chin. The green-clad ninja caught him and aimed a chop at his waist, but he cartwheeled off the other ninja's hand to deliver a straight kick to the man's kidneys.

The other shinobi pivoted around the central point of their still-connected fists, taking hold of his trouser leg to throw him into a tree. He twisted in midair, hitting said tree feet-first hard enough to make his ankles twinge. He absorbed the force and used it to launch himself at his opponent once again, his breath coming short and quick and his blood pounding in his ears.

They traded blows, hard and fast, until finally a roundhouse kick caught the green-clad shinobi across the face and made his head snap to the side. The ninja followed through on the spin to deliver a punch to his chest, which he ducked, blocking the knee which came next so he could surge up underneath his opponent's guard and land an uppercut to his chin.

It lifted the green-clad shinobi into the air, sending him flying until he hit grass with a whumph that left him breathless, and for a moment the first shinobi's hand spasmed towards the sword that wasn't at his back so he could finish off his adversary.

Then the roar in his ears subsided and he sank, gasping, to the dirt. "Idiot," he panted angrily, fingers digging into the ground. "You know—you don't stand a chance."

I could have killed you, he didn't say, because the first time he'd broken he'd put his opponent into the hospital, and now if he broke (like just then) he didn't, but he'd rather die than admit the other ninja was actually getting better.

The chuunin with the bowl-cut and bushy eyebrows (he had finally remembered seeing him at his teammate's funeral), just shrugged from where he was lying in the grass. "You looked like you needed it." the angular-faced ninja said in a moment of what was starting to be all-too-rare solemnity, and for a brief instant the silver-haired shinobi found himself missing the ridiculously dressed and overly-loud young man the chuunin was becoming (because it was just something his old teammate might have done to get him to pull his head out of his ass).

_Cos I've been down and I've been crawling_

_Pushed around and always falling_

He let his head hang, just focussing on trying to breathe through the stabs in his chest and the pound of his heart in his side and back, his matted hair shading his eyes. His shoulders were burning, his arms pulled back to the wall, and there was a faint roaring in his ears which had nothing to do with the whispers and voices that engulfed him.

But they'd gotten away, his teammates had gotten away, he was sure about that; they would get back to Konoha and deliver the scroll and the mission would be completed, and it would all be okay, it would all be worth it.

His eyes were open but it seemed dark, and he had to bite his lip until it bled when he heard his father's voice, angry, scathing (no son of mine would abandon his comrades), his sensei's (I thought I trained you better than that…) and his teammates (it's your fault!), even though he wasn't sure whether they were referring to now or then or some time that was to come.

The abrupt pain made the world around him snap almost audibly, blood trickling down his chin, though it soon faded into background discomfort compared to the throb in his legs and arms and entire body.

Someone cursed and gripped his jaw, tugging his head up roughly until his gaze met with his tormentor's. "Give me those passwords, damnit!" the other ninja hissed.

He said nothing, just stared up with one eye half lidded (but not with dispassion) and the other bound with chakra-sealing bandages, his thin frame trembling minutely with pain and exhaustion.

Some distant explosion made the room vibrate and the ninja reared up, surprised, turning towards the door, as they both recognised the sound.

One part of him cursed up a storm inside, because damnit, didn't those idiotic teammates of his (who still hadn't died!) know he wasn't worth the effort, and this was the only way he was of any value to anyone (because he was already broken), while the other part of him didn't even try to hold back the smile that curled his chapped lips.

_You're up there, you're always with me_

_Smiling down on me_

He strolled down the lane, away from the half-hidden entrance wedged into the cliff behind the Hokage Tower. His green vest was light on his shoulders (oh so light), and he didn't quite know what to do with his hands without having a sword in them, so he just stuck them in his pockets instead.

He found himself ambling—there was no other word for it—along the path, his stride liquid but at the same time almost lazy, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to be relaxed.

The path curved, following the contours of the gardens and the tower, until he came out onto the street leading up to the entrance and saw the stream of people, not all of them ninja, passing to and fro in front of it.

There he stood for a moment, wondering if it would be all right to join them (because he was so used to the skies), all right to pretend that he wasn't covered in blood and that his hands weren't moulded for a sword's handle (the sword he didn't have) and that he was sort-of just like them (because he was no longer ANBU).

He tilted his head upwards and across, just enough to see the massive stone sculpture peering down from the cliff, and although that image wasn't supposed to be smiling (even though the man it represented always had) for a moment he could have sworn it was.

_Can't you stop the lies, falling from the skies_

_Down on me. I'm still standing_

"Did you hear?"

"About the Uchiha? Who hasn't?"

"There's always been something wrong with that clan…"

"It's in the blood, it has to be. The Sharingan turns people mad."

"I heard there was a survivor, a boy. He wouldn't have the Sharingan yet; maybe he'll turn out all right."

"Besides, the Copy Ninja has the Sharingan, and he's still loyal."

"It's only a matter of time. Those red eyes, the way they see things… it's not natural."

_Can't you roll the dice, I might be surprised_

_Conscience clear? I'm still standing here_

"I'm sorry?" He blinked, certain he'd heard wrong.

He was also certain he was just imagining the slight crinkle of the Hokage's lips which might have been a smile, because if he wasn't imagining it then that meant he really did hear what he thought he did.

"You heard me, Kakashi."

Damn.

"You want me to become a jounin sensei?"

This time he _knew_ the old man smiled. "Why not? You're young, talented, and you've got a lot to teach the new generation of ninja."

Like how to kill and get your friends killed (although his ANBU teammates hadn't died, but they didn't count because they weren't his friends).

"Hn." He flipped open the newly-discovered book he held to his current page and angled his eye down to read with feigned indifference. "Only if I don't get penalised for sending them back broken."

_Can't you stop the lies, falling from the skies_

_Down on me. I'm still standing here_

"Look at him."

"How someone can read _those_ books in _public_… the _nerve_."

"Well, judging by that uniform, he is a ninja… they've always been rather arrogant."

"Still. He can't be a very good one, with his nose in _that_ book all the time. I bet he peeks at the baths too, the pervert."

"He looks familiar… isn't he one of the village's elite shinobi?"

"He can't be. No elite ninja would read stuff like _that_ in public."

_Can't you roll the dice, I might be surprised_

He stood in front of the engraved stone, his shoulders slumped and hands in his pockets with now-mastered laziness, his orange-covered book tucked away. He was telling them about the previous day, about his morning, and the new genin team he had been assigned just yesterday.

"Another set of brats," he sighed, not sure whether to feel exasperated or amused. Perhaps a bit of both.

It was kind of amusing (sadistic) to see their faces every time he sent them back to the academy, but he had good excuses. They were too young (innocent) too unskilled (inexperienced) too oblivious (happy).

He was sure he was never that young.

He didn't know why they kept assigning him teams; he hadn't passed any of them since the pattern had first started five years ago. Sometimes he thought the Hokage was just waiting for something click, and then he would take on the lucky students and all his pieces would fit together again, or at least he'd make new pieces to fit into the ones he still had.

He said as much, and added on idly that he thought the old man should start looking for another successor (although they wouldn't be nearly as good as the Fourth) because he was obviously going senile.

"Although I have to admit, this team is…" He pondered. "Unique."

'Dysfunctional' would be a better term. What else could he call a team made up of a girl who was the first ninja in her family, a traumatised youth who was the last loyal Uchiha and the Kyuubi container who also happened to be his sensei's son?

_Conscience clear?_

"Sorry, sensei, Obito," He half smiled, half grimaced in apology. "But they're not going to pass."

None of them ever will.

"They're just too different."

Like us.

"They'll never be able to work well together."

They'll lose each other trying to.

"I'm doing them a favour, really."

Really.

"And I was supposed to meet with them two hours ago. I should be going."

He didn't move. There was still time yet.

…_I'm still standing here._

- finis

* * *

**A/N:** _A shinigami is a Japanese death god, for those wondering. I think if it weren't for the Sharingan, that wouldn't be an inappropriate name for our favourite silver-haired ANBU Captain._

_The bit with the thousand burning stars I totally did not know what to write; I think I had some vague idea of equating the burn of the stars to the pain of his injuries, and the pain of being so far away from the village on that day, but I don't think it turned out too well._

_And I was wondering__—__did I put too much emphasis on Gai? I didn't want to shift the focus away from Team Minato, but it was difficult because I'm of the belief that Gai is the reason Kakashi didn't go insane while he was in ANBU, so he really needed to be in there. Of course, I'm also of the belief that Gai was Obito's friend in the academy and that's where the link between Gai and Kakashi first arose... so yeah, I guess in a roundabout way I didn't really lose the focus to begin with._

_There were two ways I intended for this to be taken... the first is the obvious: Kakashi's frequent visits to the memorial. The other is that despite everything, he's still holding on and not giving up--still standing, still fighting._

_So. Uhm. Yeah. Sorry for talking so much. Reviews loved!_


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